Archive for the ‘love’ Category

All that love does is from because.

Because of love, because, because.

Because we met in the library.
Because I secretly fell in love with your stunningly gorgeous mind.
Because I am never sure what you are going to say next.

Because it is always honest.

Because you were my first confidant.

Because you love Shakespeare almost as much as I do.
Because I told you I loved you that afternoon in the park.
Because you told me you were honored by that.

Because we kissed in the motor home.
Because we got married at the church.
Because we lost the baby, and had the little girls.

Because you love the girls.

Because I love the girls.

Because we lived through brain damage, learning disability, heartbreak, surgery, the loss of friends, the loss of jobs, the recession and then … the divine provision.

Because we will always have that, and because you are strong, I will always love you.
Because we lived through that and didn’t quit and traveled the world together anyway.
Because our love grew old, and safe and calm.

Because we still sleep with our arms around each other.

Because you take my hand.

Because you kiss my lips.

Because you still tell me I am wrong when I am wrong.

Because you love me.

Love, love, love.

Because, because, because.

Because of love.

We love because.

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We wake up together; our fluffy black cats are at the foot of the bed.

We get up and begin the day with strong, brown coffee in white mugs.

We sit on the couch; we watch each other. My eyes are on the completely particularized universal of you — your dark brown eyes, your gold streaked hair, your red and yellow cheeks, the soft contours of your essential orange.

We talk. We discuss the bright blue weather, our deep purple daughters, our investments, the upcoming week, the cats.

We go off to work. Quickly we come home again to each other. We talk about the day. Then you are sewing. Then I am writing. Then we are making dinner. Then we are luxuriating within the warm hum, sum and jume-da-jume of our intimate, red and yellow domesticity.

The whir of your machine, the click of my keyboard, the slosh of our washing machine (our clothes stirring together) the clink of our double boiler on the stove, steaming our dinner greens — this is you and me particularly, essentially artistically.

I am Chagall; you are my Bella.

You take my hand, we waft through the house, we lift from the floor and fly to the ceiling. I sit on your shoulders, you rest your head against my arm.

You most colorful, touchable, breathable specific; you minute blue particulate within the concrete bon vivant of my purple affection.

There you go, but here you are again.

You overtake me by degrees — your green lips pressed against mine immediately follow your tan arms wrapped around me always follow your orange smile coming in the door.

You spearmint breath, you green tea scent, you chai-tea warmth — you delicious Chardonnay, you perfectly hoppy IPA, you unambiguously welcome dark chocolate thing!

You are no idealized, disembodied, romanticized you. Your pink head floats past my blue hair. You are my most definite palpability. I taste your sweet lime tangibility.

We sleep, work, eat, laugh and drink connected. We are the perpetual state of met, mixed, melded, merged — mused.

I turn my face to kiss you, our red  hot lips touch, I put my hand on your purple waist, you hold my yellow head lightly, we float past the children, the cats look up.

The couch, the lamp and the TV tip over and fall out of the front window into the bright red Pacific Ocean.

I am here with you.

You are completely palpable; this makes us, “Oh, so magical!”

Rules for girls?

Unstring the pearls!

Gender hierarchy?

It’s malarkey!

Some supposedly very good men I know, dressed in ties, some women in boots, chosen ones in suits — think men are better than women.

I don’t.

I don’t like the deep-down-damning drop of it.

I like it like I like the influenza!

He-ruling-she has forced the whole world down, within a smallish bucket, like the flu, put us to bed, under the covers, given us a hopeless, hellish, hacking cough that wracks and wastes our wanting world.

The really wise know that world health lies in the remedial awareness that there is really no one better or worse, that there is no one less, that in all if us exists both male and female, slave and free, Jew and Greek.

Inside us — there is human — and that is it.

And in one human loving another human the same, all doomed dominance is done.

I will say it: We are ready now for a healing between men and women. We are aching for cures, not more harm. The whole world is on tip toe ; we men are longing, even aching, for forgiveness, mercy and respect from our mothers, sisters, wives and daughters, and they ache for this from us too. We all, together, long for the kind of mutual honoring that bring us all better romances, friendships, marriages, families, businesses, churches and governments. 

Bring this, I say! Bring baskets overflowing with honoring.

Bring me my sisters, every femi who has been held back, every one imprisoned within the walls of a genderized poverty or stuffed into a gift-killing-Spirit-grieving-gendered grave. And bring me my brothers too, clothed in a new desire to share power.

We are all the called; now call us all out, and sitting down together at the table, let us drape all male and female weakness in power.

Let’s pick wild flowers in the dessert and offer each other bouquets of respect.

As if presenting dark chocolates, let’s hand each other the bitter-sweetness of foil-wrapped empowerments.

As if we had gone out and bought each other Van Gogh’s, or Frieda Kahlo’s, let’s lavishly gift each other with equality.

Love, love, love,

Eloquence thereof.

Love speaks its mind in rowdy rhyme,

Word quests, fine jests and sweet behests.

It angles, jangles and phrase spangles,

Is fun and pun and fair fight won.

And yet — what fortitude love is framed from!

It doesn’t break upon life’s rack,

It bears the weight of time and space,

And on a lost love’s blunt return,

Love grabs lost love and won’t let go,

And smacks the lips and tips and pips,

And loves up all the jiggly bits.

And in the end — love,

At long last, quiets everything.

Love hushes all critics,

Ends all nags,

Stifles all groaners,

And muffles all interrogators.

With soft, safe, sacred silences,

Love ends the verbal din.